Monday, May 28, 2012

The book is out, and can be purchased at Amazon.com by going to:https://www.createspace.com/3836815Anyone that buys the new book, and brings it to the signing event on the 25th of June at Tortoise & Have Restaurant on 23rd Street in Crystal City, will receive the Kindle version free when it comes out.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Lisbon,
Portugal. Amid walked out into the cool morning air from
the lobby of the Hotel Solar do Castelo for the first time since he had checked in the
day before. This time, the bellman was behind him with several valises, and the
doorman was waving for a taxi to enter the drive at the front door of the hotel.

The taxi, a four-door,
white-colored Mercedes-Benz, was immaculately clean, and appeared new, or at least
a late model. The driver had barely stopped at the curb before he was out of
the car and headed toward the bellman, and his passenger. Just as quickly, the
bellman placed the luggage in the trunk, and advised the driver that the
gentleman was going to Oriente Station,
the main train facility in Lisbon, and his connection to the overnight Die Bahn
train later that morning.

Bags packed in, Amid
entered the cab and it drove off at high speed toward the train station, about
10 minutes away.

Sitting nearby on a bench
at the left of the doorway to the hotel was a small man, dressed informally
like a tourist, and wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. A small travel bag
was at his side, and, attached to it a small camera.

The man was reading
the English morning edition of the International Tribune that he could have purchased at the small shop
in the hotel lobby. Beside him was a small cup and saucer that might have held
espresso.

The man stopped
reading and looked up toward the taxi as it screeched to a stop, and the
entourage surrounding Amid came out from the hotel lobby. He shook his head slightly
as he watched the loading of the luggage. Then, after Amid entered the taxi,
the man went back to reading his paper. He continued to do so, as the taxi lurched
forward quickly into the main stream of traffic as it headed away from the
hotel and toward Oriente Station.

Attached to the camera
on the bag was a small and unobtrusive, but powerful, listening device. That
device recorded all of the conversation that passed between Amid and the
bellman, as well as the instructions to the taxi driver.

As they spoke, two men in automobiles on Rua
Das Cosinhas, the main street outside the hotel, were monitoring the
conversation. One faced in each direction, so that no matter what turn the
driver made, he could be followed easily without arousing any suspicion that he
was being followed.

When the taxi turned
right, on Cosinhas, to head toward the station, another car down a short
distance on the block from the hotel pulled into traffic behind the taxi,
maintaining a discreet distance behind the taxicab.

The driver in the
other direction, no longer needed, simply pulled away into traffic, and was
soon a part of the growing early traffic jams that characterize downtown Lisbon.
Eventually, he would replace the car that currently followed the taxi, perhaps
a couple of miles down the road on the way to Oriente. He would do so by
driving a wide arc around the intended path of the taxi until he was, again,
behind the taxi. That way, they hoped to remain anonymous as each car in turn
following the taxi to its destination.

Several minutes later,
the taxi pulled up in front of Oriente Station where Amid got out. The taxi driver followed him quickly,
but not quickly enough to open the taxi door for him. The driver waved for a
porter to take his passenger’s bags, and when the porter arrived with his cart,
the bags were quickly loaded.

Amid paid the taxi driver,
gave him a large tip, and turned so that he and the porter could enter the
station. The man in the car, which had followed Amid to the station, spoke into
a small microphone he carried in his lapel to report that the suspect had
arrived at Oriente and was entering the station. Having completed his mission,
the driver simply drove off into the morning traffic.

Oriente Station is a major attraction in Lisbon. It houses the Lisbon
Metro, bus links, many shops in its concourse, and a major railway station that
links the city with the rest of Europe. Also under construction is a major
light rail service to Lisbon Airport. The station has high vaulted ceilings
overhead both the station itself, and the metro tracks, all done in Aluminum
shining brightly in the day sky. Virtually anyone coming or going in Lisbon
goes through Oriente Station at some point in their travels.

Inside, Amid walked
through the concourse, followed by the porter. The two entered into that
portion of Oriente used as a railway station, where Amid looked at the huge
information board listing the various trains and departure times. He located the
gate number for his departing train on Die Bahn, and pointed it out to the
porter, who then started toward that gate with the luggage. Amid walked back toward
the bookshop in the concourse of the station.

The porter located the
first class section of the correct train, and soon found an empty compartment.
There he stowed the luggage for his passenger and turned the door sign to show
that the passenger cabin was occupied. He then spoke into a small microphone
hidden in his lapel similar to the one that the driver of the car tailing Amid
had used, and gave the location of the car and the compartment number. Then, he
returned to the concourse, but did not find Amid.

Amid entered the bookshop,
purchased a paper, and went over to the ticket area. He looked at the arrivals
and departures board, as if trying to decide on another train. Finally, he
turned and started back to the bookshop, where he found the porter looking
frantically for him.

“Senor, I was worried
that I would not find you, to give you the location of your car, and the
compartment where I placed your luggage.”

“Have no worry. I went
to buy a book and paper for the train, and walked a bit. Here I am, and
everything is all right. We have plenty of time before the train leaves.”

The porter handed Amid
the tickets and luggage stubs. He told Amid the compartment number as well. Amid,
in turn, gave him a tip for his efforts.

“Thank you, senor. This
is very kind. Almost too much for my small service.” He smiled, and Amid waved
him away. Then Amid turned and started toward the departure area for the trains.
The porter went back to his station, to assist the next customer.

Two other men now began
to watch Amid’s movements as he proceeded toward the train. One, standing with
others along a wall, was reading the Economist and smoking a cigarette. The
other was just to the left of the forward door of the car which contained
Amid’s luggage. This man was dressed as a trainman, and stood with a small
stool placed to assist passengers in entering the train. He stayed at that
position as Amid approached.

“Car twenty-seven,
senor. First class only.” Amid nodded, and stepped up to the first step of the
train. As he entered the car, the man, who had been reading the Economist along the wall, left the place
where he was standing and slowly walked toward the steps of the next car, where
another trainman waited for his passengers.

Amid walked the length
of the first class car until he found compartment five, near the opposite end,
where his luggage waited. The porter had done well. Two of the valises were
stowed on the upper rack while the other, smaller one, he placed on the seat. Since
Amid was to be the only passenger in this compartment, he could relax a bit
more than usual. He took a seat and began to look at the system timetable as
the trainman walked by the window, calling out that boarding was starting for
the night train to Berlin.

The man who had been
reading the Economist walked through the car he had entered, and crossed
to the first class car where Amid had boarded, and walked the length of the car
until he found compartment six. This compartment, across from Amid, was also a
single person cabin, and he too settled in to relax on the long journey ahead.

When loading of
passengers and other necessities was complete, the trainman picked up his small
stool and entered the end of the First Class car, where he had a small
compartment for the trip. Others along the length of the train did the same.
The trainman’s compartment was only three doors from Amid, compartment number
nine, on the same side of the train. Today the trainman had volunteered for an
extra shift would travel all the way to Berlin. In this way, the trainman could
easily see if Amid decided to get off the train at some station before his
expected destination.

New
Orleans Police Department. Kehane was at the boiling point when he left the
meeting with the Deputy Chief. Who the hell do these FBI agents think they
are he asked himself. We’re the police department here, not them. They
should be responding to us, not us dancing on their string. Coming out of
the building to go to his car, he pushed the swinging door so hard that it hit
someone in the face. He didn’t even look back as he heard the screaming.

Just moments before, the Deputy Chief indicated he wanted
to see him, and Kehane walked down the corridor from his own office to the
Chief's.

“You need to see me
chief?” he asked.

“I do, Kehane. I just handled
a call from Fred Ledwith at FBI. What’s this about manhandling one of
their agents—especially one here on leave? Are you crazy? What do you think you
gain by these fights with the Feds? You don’t make it any easier for us as a
Department. It stops, and NOW, or I will stop you. Understand?” It was clear
that the chief was unhappy.

“Chief, these punks think…”

“Kehane, what’s the
real problem here? These guys are as good as any of your people, and the guy
you hassled yesterday was a key player in solving a major international case. They
are not punks, they are professionals; you need to act like one as well.”

“But chief, this is my
investigation. They are supposed to be supporting us, and not telling us what
to do.”

“Didn’t sound to me
like Fred Ledwith was trying to tell us anything—other than cooperation might
be difficult in the future if you are going to act like a damned fool every
time you need them to work with us.”

“You screamed down a
small street, light blinking, and stopped in front of his hotel, yelling at
him, and in front of his wife. He is going to be interviewed on Wednesday—at
FBI instead of here. And by the way, Ledwith has already told me that if any
more manhandling occurs, he will go to the Chief and you’re going to be out of
here. Chief gets involved, you are out, and you are on suspension. Got it?”

“Right, Chief.” Kehane
was resigned to ending the conversation since it was obvious that the chief had
already made up his mind.

“Good, now get out of
here before I really get mad.” The officer went back to his papers and Kehane
walked out of the office, red-faced, and with his emotions at fever pitch.

“That bastard,” Kehane
yelled as he entered his car and turned the key.

Waterfront.
New Orleans. Gillespie and his wife Alicia could see the
paddle wheeler Creole Queen looming ahead as they reached the end of Decatur
Street and turned left down Canal St. toward the waterfront. The ship, a
three-decked stern paddle wheeler, was magnificent; painted white, with dual
large-sized smoke stacks, it was more than even the description in the pamphlet
they had picked up at the hotel described, and they were pleased they would be
spending the day on it.

They crossed South
Peters, which joined Canal at that point, and walked to the River walk where
the ship was moored. At the booth, Gillespie handed in the tickets they had
purchased the day before for their trip to the Chalmette Battlefield where the
final battle of the War of 1812 had occurred in 1815. Then they waited
patiently on a small bench for the OK to go aboard for their cruise.

The brochure that
Alicia picked up yesterday said that ship would leave at 1:30 PM, for a four-hour
cruise along the river, up to Chalmette, where they could disembark to see the
battlefield at the Lafitte National Historical Park before returning to the
Riverwalk in late afternoon. That was fine for them. They had not been on a
paddle wheeler before, and they hoped a relaxing afternoon might be good for
both of them.

Alicia knew that Robert
was worried about the death of the guy named Galanto. She could tell that he
might have to be involved, and she hoped that would not be the case. This was
their first vacation in a long time, and she wanted it to continue for the
whole five days.

Robert too, was concerned, but for Alicia. He knew that he
could say little to reduce her fears—and he knew that she was feeling fear
right now, after the discussions last evening, and being faced with the New
Orleans detective. He wasn’t sure what he could say that would be calming, only
that he had no intention of getting further involved. However, he also knew
that she didn’t believe him for a minute. Gillespie was a professional, and if
this investigation required his involvement, then the chances of him staying
out were non-existent.

For now, they both
decided—without telling the other—that today would be a good, relaxing day, and
they would take other things as they came, starting tomorrow. For today, they
only had to worry about each other.

Onboard
the DB Bahn, Portugal. The train was moving very fast and staying on
schedule. Only minutes before it had passed the Coimbra-B Station,
and was speeding its way along the Portuguese mainland, headed toward Spain. The
sky started to darken, and the evening was rapidly approaching.

Things were quiet inAmid’s
First Class cabin. He had read the papers he bought at the bookstore, and part
of the book he purchased as well, and was now simply looking out at the
landscape as the afternoon sun gradually gave way to a darker evening sky. Now,
it was time to make some calls, and let others know that he was safe. The first
call would be to his boss Amoud Fatool.

Amid had been associated
with Fatool since the early days in Libya, when they were both
objects of intense political interest, but for different reasons. Fatool was a member of the Wilson gang that had been
organized to sell drugs and arms throughout Europe, especiallyto those groups
that were opposed to the United States and Israel.

For that reason, he
was well protected in Libya, since there were no extradition treaties, and,
even if there were Libya was so isolated from the rest of the western world
that the thought of extradition for anyone that Khadafy protected was
ridiculous.

However, Amid had come
to Libya a wanted man—an eighteen-year old exile from what had been the Palestinian
area of what was now Israel. He had killed four soldiers that assaulted his
father in a public square in Nablus. His father was a
merchant, and a cripple with a withered right leg, who could harm no one.

However, one day some
Israeli troops came through and decided to feast on the fruit at the stand he
had in the local market in Nablus. When his father protested, the soldiers beat
him and pushed him off the stool that he used to greet his customers to the
ground. He was unable to get up.

Amid saw the event
from down the street, and rushed back to the stand, where he tried to help his
father get away from the attacking soldiers. One of the Israeli soldiers continued
to kick his father on the ground, pushed Amid away, and Amid went wild. He
grabbed the soldier, took the weapon, an Uzi sub-machine gun from his neck,
strangling the soldier that had been kicking his father, and then sprayed the
other soldiers with bullets from the gun he had taken from the first soldier. The
other soldiers died in the gunfire, and the one held by Amid choked to death in
his grasp.

When he realized that
the soldier was lifeless, Amid released him, and the soldier fell to the ground.
While others in the marketplace helped his father, Amid ran away into the crowd
that populated the marketplace. Over the next two days he escaped across the
border to Jordan and then into Libya. He found out afterwards that the Israelis
had hung his father as a lesson, and Amid vowed eternal vengeance against the
Israelis.

Later, he joined
Fatool in the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt,
eventually becoming his assistant and confidant, and followed him to Libya
where he became the keeper of records of al-Nur-al-Muhammad,
the Light of Muhammad faction of the Brotherhood, whose supreme
leader was Muammar Khadafy, the leader of Libya.

Over the years that
followed, Amid took every opportunity, once he found out who they were, to
murder each of the six soldiers who hanged his father, including two by hanging—as
a sign of vengeance. It took several years, and eventually he stopped, after he
had killed the last of the soldiers, a sergeant who had been in charge that day
in Nablus.

Mossad, the Israeli
Intelligence Service, never identified Amid by name, although they did know
there was a soldier killer, identified with the invasion of Nablus, and they
would never stop in their attempts to identify him. To this day, the record of
the killings of the soldiers by a Palestinian is considered an open case in Israel.
His membership in the Brotherhood provided a means of protection and security
against his apprehension, as long as he was never again associated with the
killing of soldiers.

U.S.
Embassy Lisbon. Bernie Minihan sat in his now mostly empty office
alone, except for his assistant Yvonne, who had stayed late in case he needed
anything on his last day in Lisbon. She knew that he had a flight just before
midnight that would take him to the United States, and that this would be her
last day with him. They had gone through the office together, packing those
things that needed to be sent to Langley, and preparing for storage those items
that were part of the Embassy archives. A good deal of material was destroyed,
since it fit in neither category, and might prove inappropriate for simple
trash disposal.

Yvonne, a striking
woman of about 50 years, was well regarded in the Agency as a conservative
thinker, careful preparer of activities and reports, and sought out for her
knowledge and insights about the local community where she had worked for over
20 years. She was sincerely upset about this latest change in ‘her charges’ as
she called them. She considered Bernie among the best that had served there
during her years, and she knew that he would be missed.

Bernie sat in the easy
chair in his office and thought about the first days after he had been told
that Lisbon would be his next assignment. He was in Langley when the
announcement was made, and he sat with his immediate boss Rex Ramsey, and the then
Deputy Director of Mideast Operations—to discuss the move. Rex would later
replace the Director MidOPs, while still staying as Bernie’s boss—that was the
real importance of the Lisbon billet.

“Bernie, you have
immense potential,” started Rex, “This past assignment in Istanbul was complex,
but not well-organized or supervised. I take a good part of the blame for that.”

“We did not anticipate
either the official or unofficial reactions of the Turkish Government to what
we would normally consider standard procedures. We didn’t—particularly
me—respond fast enough to prevent what became a messy incident. The Agency
agrees with that assessment, and you are going to an assignment that any field
officer would consider very important. You deserve it; I’m happy for you, and
I’m glad that it means you stay in my directorate.”

“Thanks Rex, but.”

“Let me add
something,” interrupted the Director of Ops, “Rex is right, Bernie. You need to
put Istanbul behind you, and look forward to your new assignment. We tagged
that position as the regional head of the Interagency Terrorism Task Force
against a lot of opposition from the FBI, and others. We won because we could
show that a senior field officer with a lot of ‘street smarts’ in this area
would be in that position. You are now in that position. Do good things, and
make us proud.”

“Gentlemen,’ responded
Bernie, “It is obvious that I will not make the case for someone else going to
Lisbon. I have never said no to the agency in nearly 20 years, and I won’t do
it now. At the same time, I want you to know that you are sending a very
irregular person to fill a large set of shoes. I hope you really do know what
you are doing sending me to replace Joe Black. I have no earthly idea why you think
I have even a few of his qualifications.” Bernie sat back in the chair, and
sipped his coffee.

“I selected you, and I
will stand by my decision, Bernie. Joe would be proud to look down and see that
you are going in for him. His heart attack and subsequent death left us all
stunned as we raced to find a successor that could fill his shoes. We believe
you are that person.”

“Go to Lisbon and do
what you know how to do. That’s all I ask,” responded Rex in his most fatherly
way. No more was said, and Bernie went to Lisbon. The agency was pleased, and
he did a good job. Now, it was time to return to Langley to do something else. Bernie
was just as anxious about the new assignment as he had been about the move to
Lisbon.

Pop, thought
Bernie to himself, here I am again. A new situation and a new dilemma. What
do I do? In his heart, he heard the answer—Go do what they tell you to
do, and do it well. Make me proud as you always have, his
long-deceased father told him in his heart.

Bernie felt he
confided in his father often. He truly missed his father’s advice and counsel;
even after his death, while Bernie was still in school, his thoughts would be
toward what his father might think he would do. Bernie had never been
disappointed. He was not going to be disappointed now.

Bernie got up from his
desk, and started toward the door to his office, turning off the light as he
emerged into the outer office space.

“Yvonne, everything is
done, and it’s time to leave.”

“I will miss you,
Bernie Minihan,’ she responded, as she walked over and gave him a hug. “ Go
home, and marry Sarah. She’s waited long enough.” Yvonne had tears in her eyes,
as Bernie walked through the door, and down to the driveway at the Embassy
door, where a car waited to take him to the airport.

Waterfront.
New Orleans. Gillespie could feel the cell phone buzzing in
his pocket. He didn’t really want to answer it, since he and Alicia had been
having such a wonderful day, seeing the sights of the river from the paddle
wheeler as they neared Chalmette. However, he knew he had to take it, and he
had a pretty good idea who it might be.

Taking the phone from his pocket, and looking at the
number, he opened the phone cover, and said, “Yes, Jim. I’m here.”

“Sorry to bother you
Bob, but I thought a quick call, and an offer to pick you up in the morning
might be easier than you trying to find the office in rush hour traffic.”

“Good idea, Jim. What
time do you want me to be in front of the hotel?”

“How about eight?”

“That’s fine. See you
at eight.”

“Have a good evening,
Bob. See you in the morning.”

“Will do. Thanks for the
call.” Gillespie closed his phone, ending the call, and looked over at Alicia,
who was waiting to hear about the call. He wondered what he would say.

NAS
Pensacola, FL. Captain Hershman paced the room as he heard the briefing on the
Emden Crown.

“Sir,’ said the briefer, “We have been exhaustively
reviewing and analyzing the scans from the Emden Crown over the past thirty-six hours, and we have
tried several different ways to get a good determination on what might be
happening on that ship. We even sent out Spirit-two,
the more advanced EC to do some additional scans before we set up the
briefing.”

“All right, man,”
responded Hershman, “What do you have to tell me?”

“Sir, we are still not
completely sure, but we think that there is some form of radiation in hold
number two on that ship that should not be there. It may be in the tank walls;
and it might be nothing more than a watch, or something similar that was left inadvertently
during the last set of repairs. The problem we see is that whatever it might be
is co-located within an LNG pod. The natural gas is allowing it to perfuse at a
very slow rate. I want to emphasize that we do not believe, at this point,
there is a danger from this ship. We only know that something is happening in
hold number two, probably involving some form of radiation.”

“What do I do next,
then?” responded Hershman.

“For lack of any other
evidence, we believe this ship should be considered a class two danger—higher
than normal, but not yet serious, and that the normal procedures for dangerous
cargoes should be started.

“Aye, Aye, Sir,”
responded the yeoman in the room. He picked up the red STU-3 secure phone and
told the operator he needed to speak to Norfolk, and the priority was urgent. She
put him through immediately.

“Captain Shindler,
please,” asked Hershman. “Jeff, this is Hershman. I have a ship in the
Southeastern Atlantic, bearing out of Nigeria, with a bad shadow on its scan.”

“OK, what do you have
for info?”

“The ship is the Emden
Crown,
bound from Port Harcourt, Nigeria to New Orleans, with a load of natural gas. We
have done four scans, with a widening profusion in the central hold, unknown
origin, but assumed to be radiation, and undetermined potential. Spectrum
analysis confirms the radiation. We don’t know the exact form, and it appears
to be a small sample. What do you want us to do?”

“Notify Joint-Navy
Norfolk of the potential problem. Provide all information to them, and be
prepared to assist in further scanning and surveillance. We will confirm that
they are the lead operational headquarters should further action be required. We
take responsibility at 1441 hours, this date. Confirm.”

“Pensacola confirms transfer of responsibility at 1441
hours. Two EC-3s will be on the tarmac for further missions at your direction. Hershman.”

“Ok Dave,” Shindler
replied to Hershman, “Now that the formalities are over, what do we really
have?”

“Wish I knew Jeff. The
scans are really not very distinct. I attribute that to the large cargo of gas.
It’s just too early to get concerned very much. If it is something small, then
the profusion will dissipate, and it becomes nothing. Wish I had a better
answer, but I don’t.”

“Appreciate the heads
up, though,” Shindler responded, “Better we start watching and monitoring at an
increased level than have a real problem later. Use your discretion on this,
but keep us and Norfolk in the loop. Back to you later, Dave.”

“OK, out here.”

When Captain Shindler
hung up the phone, he called a meeting of his J-2 staff two hours later, with the
intelligence senior staff, to review the documentation that was rapidly
arriving from CENTCOM at Pensacola. He included Hershman to ensure that CENTCOM
intelligence continued any required monitoring. Over the
next hour, they jointly developed a plan for further scanning and monitoring,
just in case a problem developed.

Hotel
St. Louis. New Orleans. Agent O’Neill pulled up in front of the Hotel St.
Louis just before the time he had agreed to meet with Robert Gillespie. O’Neill
parked across the street from the entrance, just behind another car he assumed
to be a rental that the doorman had brought to the front of the hotel, as was
the custom on in the Quarter. He opened the front door, and climbed out of the
car as he saw Gillespie emerge from the hotel.

“Bob, over here,” shouted
O’Neill.

Just then, out of the
lobby from another direction came Detective Kehane. Gillespie
turned to see who had come through the hotel door after him.

“Agent Gillespie,”
said Kehane, “I need you to come with me to Police headquarters. You are a
material witness to a murder in this city.” Both Gillespie and O’Neill stood
there amazed.

“Are you for real,
Kehane?” O’Neill shouted as he crossed the street.

“Very much so,”
responded Kehane. “I have an obligation to the city, and he goes to our
headquarters.”

“It’s OK, Jim. I’ll
deal with it,” responded Gillespie to O’Neill.

“Gillespie and Kehane
went over to Kehane’s car, and entered it, driving away shortly thereafter. O’Neill
took out his cell phone, and called Fred Ledwith.

“Sir, Kehane was at
the hotel, and arrested Bob Gillespie as a material witness. Said he was taking
him to NOPD headquarters.”

“Get to the NOPD
headquarters yourself, Jim. I’ll call the chief.”

“Thanks, sir. On my
way.”

Ledwith called the
Chief of Police, and raised hell again over the treatment of a senior member of
the FBI Staff. The chief shared his concern, and said he would meet Kehane and Gillespie
at the door when they arrived. It would not be a pleasant scene.

O’Neill arrived at
NOPD Headquarters at Broad Street within minutes, and parked in the visitor
area. He took the elevator to the main floor, and, as he exited the elevator,
the chief was standing in the corridor.

“Chief, have they
arrived yet?”

“No, O’Neill, they
haven’t. However, they should have, by now. This whole mess concerns me. Kehane
has had a burr under his britches for the last few days, and it seems to be causing
him to do stupid things. That’s not like him, even if he does have his own
views on working with you Feds.”

“But, that’s my problem
not yours, although it sure seems like you are getting involved today anyway.” The
chief looked toward the front door, and saw Kehane coming in with his hand on
the arm of Robert Gillespie.

“Kehane, what is going
on here?”

“Just bringing in my
witness, chief. Just doing my job. That’s all.”

“You have gone far
beyond that, Kehane. Agent Gillespie, I’m sorry that you have been subjected to
this treatment. You are of course free to go and this officer will not bother
you again.”

He stopped his statement
as he heard a commotion in the main lobby as a number of people entered. Looking
over, he saw both Fred Ledwith and the U. S. Attorney enter the lobby, along
with a small coterie of staff.

“Chief,” said the U.S.
Attorney. This investigation is now a Federal investigation, and the FBI is
designated as the lead agency, by order of the Attorney General, and a writ from the Special
Intelligence Court of the United States. You will release Agent Gillespie
immediately, and call off your officers. They have no further function here.” He
looked specifically at Kehane as he made the last statement.

“Someone want to tell
me what is happening here?” asked the chief.

“Happy to, chief,”
answered Fred Ledwith. “Shall we go to your office, and discuss it in private? We
have a lot more to talk about than the situation with Kehane.”

“Let’s go, Fred. This
is becoming very confusing. As I started to say to Agent Gillespie as you men
were arriving, I want to apologize to Agent Gillespie for the treatment he
received at the hands of this officer. I can assure you it will not happen
again.”

He extended his hand
to Robert Gillespie, who reciprocated in a solid handshake. Then, he turned to Kehane.

“You will be in my
office in an hour. At that time, we will discuss your suspension from this
force, Officer Kehane.” His use of the word ‘officer’ was not lost on the
detective.

“Gentlemen, would you
join me in my office?”

“Happy to,” responded
the U. S. Attorney.

“Bob, you better come
along, and hear what we now know,” added Agent Ledwith.

“Love to, Fred.” Gillespie
joined the group, as they left Kehane standing alone in the lobby looking dumbfounded,
and went to the second floor offices of the Chief of Police.

Dulles
Airport, Virginia. The United Airways jet came in low over the fields that surround the
Dulles International Airport in suburban Virginia, and touched ground on the
south-to-north approach runway—one of the longest at the airport.

This runway can
accommodate the largest of jets, and had been used for many years for the old
Supersonic Transport jets, the SST’s, built by Air France to enable shorter
runs across the Atlantic Ocean, between Europe and the US and other overseas
locations.

While the SSTs were
now gone, the larger trans-continental jets were well known for their
amenities, even in coach class, and made the trip across the Atlantic less
time-consuming and uncomfortable.

United Flight 305 was
a DC 10 direct flight from Lisbon headed for Washington DC, with a further stop
at O’Hare Airport in Chicago, Illinois. As was usual these days, it was fully
loaded with both passengers and cargo and, as it touched down heavily on the runway,
it jerked a second as it stabilized and slowed down to taxi to its arrival
station.

The plane came to a
stop at its usual position at gate D7 and the jet way was quickly extended to
allow the passengers to deplane. These overnight flights did not always result
in rapid deplaning, since many of the flight patrons were asleep during most of
the transoceanic leg of the flight.

This evening was no
different, although a number did move quickly to exit the place—among them
Bernie Minihan, the passenger in seat 6-B.

Bernie picked up his
magazine, and rose to open the overhead compartment that held his travel bag,
and his overcoat. Removing the small bag, he put his magazine in a side pocket,
put on his overcoat, and prepared to go down the short length of aisle that
would take him to the jet way.

As he turned to the
door, he could see the jet way ahead, and standing in the well of the jet way
was Sarah.

“How did you get down
here?” asked Bernie, as he hugged his fiancé, and kissed her.

“Sometimes, it pays to
get pushy, and tell them you are important,” responded Sarah. “I simply told
the TSA punks that I was on official business. They had no idea what to do, so
they let me through. Probably were afraid not to when they saw CIA on the
credentials.”

“I’m glad you’re here.
Rex said you might come to meet me. Let’s go get my luggage, and get out of
here. I have a hotel reservation in McLean.”

“I know, but you
aren’t going there. You are going home with me, and we will worry about getting
to the Agency in the morning.”

“Sounds good to me. No
complaints here,” Bernie responded, as he put his hand around her waist. They
walked together down the jet way, and out into the concourse that would take
them out of the airport.

United
Stated Central Command, FL. For two hours, after the call from Norfolk,
Central Command had been poring over the information it had received from the
first two sets of scans, hoping to clarify their understanding of what may be
on the ship in Hold Number 2. The scans from Emden Crown were inconclusive, or at least non-conclusive,
but they were serious enough that the intelligence staff was concerned. That
concern raised the threshold for the entire command.

The Pensacola EC-3
Squadron was ordered to conduct additional sightings over the evening and nighttime
hours, with three different EC-3’s, from fixed angles. By the time the last of
the sighting and scans information arrived back at Central Command,
the command knew what it had to do.

The message traffic
between Florida, and Joint Forces Command in Norfolk was instantaneous.

The results were
equally expeditious. The Director, FBI,
ordered that the Agent-in-Charge, New Orleans Field Office, notify the United
States Attorney of the potential threat, and determine Federal jurisdiction. That
request came at the same time as the interaction between the NOPD and the local
FBI office.

The decision on the
part of Fred Ledwith was not hard to determine in either circumstance; neither
was the view of the US Attorney. The possibility of a tanker arriving with a
hazardous substance, still unknown, was enough to get the FBI involved, and the
instability of the port as a result of a mysterious murder also seemed to cry
out for Federal intervention.

A call was made to
Washington to the Criminal Division of the Justice Department, and concurrence
reached on asking the Federal Court for a writ supporting the Federal
investigation under the Patriot Act.

Within an hour, the US Attorney’s Office had requested the
determination from The Special Intelligence Court on the advisability of
asserting Federal jurisdiction, since this had the earmarks of a potential
terrorist plot.

With the opinion of the senior judge of the court, the FBI
notified DHS and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence, that it
would assume jurisdiction of all current investigations involving waterfront
activities in the Port of New Orleans. DHS requested that notification to the New
Orleans authorities be delayed until the following morning, in order to coordinate
with the ODNI on next steps. The Federal case had begun, leading to the events
occurring shortly thereafter at the NOPD.

Office of the Chief of Police, New Orleans. The chief,
Fred Ledwith, and the US Attorney marched into the office on the second floor
of the NOPD headquarters building. None of the three was particularly happy. A
moment later, Agents Gillespie and O’Neill followed them into the offices. The
chief sat down at a chair near the middle of a conference table in his office,
and asked the others to join him.

“Ok, theatrics are over. What do we have here Fred?” the Chief
asked in a very calm and collected manner.

“Chief, there seems to be two separate, but inter-connected
issues here that are causing Federal intervention. Let me start by saying that
we generally defer to your office on matters that could involve Federal issues,
and let you and your staff sort them out. We normally give you what assistance
you request as needed. That effort has worked well and we want it to continue.”

“So, now we have the Galanto killing coming up. That by
itself is not a problem for us. However, we have another, even more significant
problem that complicates this.

There is an LNG tanker coming into the Mississippi River
Delta over the next several days that appears to have a significant problem. It
has been watched since it left Bonny Island, Port Harcourt, Nigeria two days ago. Scanning by high-level aircraft
shows patterns of perfusion—leakage—in one hold of the LNG tanker.

We don’t know yet what it is, and we won’t be able to
interdict it for another three days to board it, and try and determine what is
on board,” explained Fred Ledwith.

“What concerns us is the combination of the two, and how
they may be related. It may be a coincidence that the assumed arrival of the
ship occurs just at the point that the Longshoremen are in turmoil over the
death of Galanto.

Normally, we would have worked with you to let this stay a
local matter, but with Kehane screwing up by the numbers, and the sensitivity
of the issues, we felt that we needed to take over before any real damage might
be done.”

“An important part of this is the killing of Galanto. We
now know that one of the men involved was someone named Amid Moustaffah.” Ledwith looked at Robert Gillespie
as he mentioned the name. Gillespie’s ears perked up quickly.

“Moustaffah is the assistant and confidant of a man named
Amoud Tabriz, also called Fatool. He runs a big part of a
group called the Muslim Brotherhood out of his offices in Cairo and Paris.

Gillespie here just finished a messy case in Boston involving
Fatool, and nearly got a bullet for his efforts. He is the only man we have
that has ever seen either Amid or Fatool.”

“OK, Fred. I agree we may have a real problem here. What do
we do next?”

“In all honesty, chief, I haven’t figured that out yet. I
need two good men from you to join a task force we will be creating, to sift
through what we know. We intend to work with the New Orleans Fusion Center to
analyze the threats and work out a resolution of the problem.

Our staff here has little or no experience in these types
of actions, and our experience is your people don’t either, so we asked
Washington for assistance. The two officers you have on the case now would work
just fine with Kehane out of the picture, and we will add more from our office,
and those coming in from other offices, to round out a team to deal with this
situation.”

Gillespie’s heart sank. He knew what might be coming next,
and dreaded it. Worse, he didn’t know how Alicia would react, but he had a real
dread of having to tell her that their vacation was over.

Ledwith smiled, as he looked at Gillespie. “Bob is one of
two men on our team with the information we need. The other, his boss in
Boston, is on recuperation leave, and will be staying there, at least for the
present. That means I need to use Bob Gillespie, and have asked the Bureau to
detail him temporarily here. We intend to let him finish his vacation here in
New Orleans. He and Alicia will then go back to Boston, and he will be detailed
back to us in about a week. Fair enough, Bob?”

“We have him for what information we need, and I will
coordinate that as necessary. Everybody understand?”

“What else can the Department do to help, Fred?” asked the
chief.

“I hoped you would ask, chief. You know how much I respect
your department. I need the two men, but I also want to keep the communications
lines open. That is why I recommend using the existing capabilities of the Fusion
Center. That gives us access to continuing intelligence from many sources, some
of which may provide to be valuable here.

Your guys know the local community; the center has experts
from a range of agencies, such as the Coast Guard and Civil Defense that might
be important if the situation warrants. I hope you will join our senior-level
coordinating group.

We will also take some lessons from the operation in
Boston, and try to apply some of it here. That’s why I want Bob available. The
team will also have members from the Office of the Director of National
Intelligence; they coordinate intelligence activities among the domestic and
other agencies, such as the CIA

At some point, we will probably also have to involve the
Interagency Terrorism Task Force for their experience dealing with terrorism
cells and this guy Tabriz and his cohorts. FBI will coordinate that when we
need their expertise.”

“You can have whatever you need, Fred,” replied the chief. “We
have offices over by Riverfront Park that we use for big events. It’s secure, and
has all the communications and technology you will need. Will that help?”

“Sure will chief. It’s closer than our offices, and puts us
right where we want to be. O’Neill, work with the chief to secure that building
space. Lock it up tight and get it ready, if necessary, to connect to the
Fusion Center. We will use that as our coordinating group HQ as this thing
expands.”

“Yes sir,” responded O’Neill, who also nodded to the chief.

“OK, that’s about it for now. Glad we could get you in the
loop chief. I really hate to be at odds.”

“No problem, Fred,” responded the chief. “If you guys are
leaving, I have a small personnel matter to complete. Then, how about lunch Fred,
at Le Perpignan, as usual?”

“Love to. The two men shook hands, and the Federal officers
rose to leave. “See you at lunch.” Ledwith shook hands again with the chief, as
they left the offices, expecting to see Kehane in the outer office. However,
only the receptionist was there, behind her desk.

“Sally,” said the chief, as he came out of his office,
“Where’s Kehane?”

“He was here chief, but just long enough to leave his badge
and gun. Said he quit, and walked out. Looked pretty steamed, if you ask me.”

“Too bad,’ mused the chief. “ Call personnel. Have them
come up to see me, and call Internal Affairs to come and get the gun and badge,
and notify them that Kehane is suspended pending dismissal.

Make sure the announcement goes out on the wire to all
precincts and departments. I don’t want people out there thinking he still has
authority to act. I also want to see Lieutenant Lambert when he comes in.”

“Sure thing chief,” responded Sally, as she started to make
her calls.

Aboard the Emden Crown. Tiklas Korinakeu had been sailing on ships for over twenty
years. A Greek like the captain, he started as an ordinary seaman aboard a
large, ocean-going fishing ship, a sea-going factory that processed fish from
the smaller boats. Over time, he had progressed, first to learn the job of a
helmsman, and, coming under the mentorship of a senior officer on a large
freighter, he gradually learned enough to take the examinations in Greece, and
become an officer. This was the first officer’s maiden voyage in his current
position.

Korinakeu liked the larger ships—and the challenge they
presented. His last ship, as second officer, had been a large oil tanker, and
like the Emden Crown, had started its voyage in Nigeria and carried heavy
oil to Southern China. The ship then went to Vladivostok and took on oil from
that port for delivery to Japan, Korea, and Hawaii.

At Hilo, Korinakeu signed off, and flew to Greece for a
vacation, before he joined the Emden Crown in Nigeria. Now, he was on
the deck of a truly large ship, as the first officer to a captain whom he
greatly respected, and he looked forward to a successful voyage.

“Position, helmsman, if you please?”

“Aye, aye sir,” responded the helmsman. “Position is 11
degrees 41 minutes north longitude. 23 degrees 53 minutes west latitude. Open
ocean.Korinakeu reached up and flipped the
intercom switch that would take him to Engineering. “Engineering, give me your
readings.”

“Engineering, here. All engines normal, at two-thirds speed.
Pressure normal. Sensors to the holds normal. We are looking at one sensor in the
number two hold that is showing a slightly higher heat level, but nothing to be
alarmed about.”

“What does the sensor say?” asked Korinakeu.

“Just shows a higher heat level, Mr. K,” responded the
engineering officer. “We get these every once in a while. None of the others
are reacting the same way, so it is probably malfunctioning, and needs to be
replaced. This one is near the bottom of the hold, so replacement will be in
New Orleans, when we offload and air the hold.”

“All right, but make sure that we get readings into the log
every three hours on that sensor. Out here.”

“Will do, sir,” he heard, as the line switched to off.

Korinakeu checked with the other major departments, and
completed the update to the log on the computer because he knew that the
captain would soon arrive on the bridge from his lunch.

The captain always ate after most of the officers, so they
could go back to their stations. He usually had a sandwich and some coffee,
leaving his big meal to the evening, when he could enjoy the camaraderie of the
dinner table.

“Calm day, K.” the first officer heard as the inside door
to the bridge opened, and captain entered.

“Captain on the bridge,” announced the helmsman.

“I will take the con,” said the captain, saluting his first
officer.

‘Captain has the con,” responded the first mate. “Log the
change, helmsman.”

“What is happening on this lovely day, K?”

“Very quiet, sir. Everything normal. Engineering has one
sensor in the third hold they are monitoring, a heat sensor, but they feel it
is nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes, sir. Happens every once in a while with these types
of sensors. We can get it replaced in New Orleans. All other sensor equipment
shows normal in all holds.”

“Good. Did you tell them to continue to monitor and log it?”

“Yes sir. Entry in the log every three hours.”

“Amazing isn’t it? No more logbooks for the official record.
Everything on computer and all the entries are flashed to the company data
banks. This is an age of technology, isn’t it K?”

“Sure is, captain. Too much technology, if you ask me.”

“I agree there. We have to do what they tell us and use it.
Tell you what, though. I still keep a personal log in my safe—sentimental, I
guess.” They both laughed, and looked out over the flat ocean, and the bright
blue sky. Few clouds were even evident on this particular day.

“By the way, K. Any more scanning or plane sightings?”

“Not on the record, sir. Probably just some American Air
Force or Navy plane on a training run. They do that a lot to keep their
abilities up.”

“You’re probably right. In any case, we have nothing to
hide. We’re just an LNG tanker on its way to make a delivery.” The captain
shrugged his shoulders and began to walk around the bridge, reading screens,
and looking at the latest weather reports. Then, he returned to where his first
officer was standing.

“Why don’t you go below, and relax for a while. Everything
is quiet here.”

“Thank you, sir. I could use a few minutes of relaxation.” The
first officer saluted and turned to go out from the bridge. He would exit
through an inside door that would take him toward his compartment.

“Check and maintain course, helmsman,” the first officer
heard the captain say as he closed the door behind him.